


Reflections

by ceallaig



Category: Being Human, The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: M/M, Some angst, but it ends good, fluff no smut, some of this hurts, vampire lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceallaig/pseuds/ceallaig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeing his reflection only made Mitchell more aware of what he was ... and what he was not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm now jumping into the Britchell fandom with both feet! This began with a discussion of just WHY Mitchell can't see himself in a mirror or on film, started out dark and angsty, and ended up hearts and flowers. Sue me, I wanna give those boys a happy ending ...

The first time, it came as a shock.

Mitchell knew the tales, of course – everyone did. And one of the most famous bits of lore was that vampires could not see their own reflections in mirrors. He had dragged himself back to the empty barracks after Herrick had…done his work and he had woken up. He’d fallen onto a cot and dropped into a dreamless sleep, lost in exhaustion. He stumbled to the makeshift basin when he awoke and splashed water on his face. He looked in the small shaving mirror tacked up above it, trying to convince himself it had all been a dream. And barely held back a scream of panic when all he could see in the mirror was the pitted and rough wall behind him. He looked down – yes, his body was still there. He reached a trembling hand up to the mirror. Nothing, not even a shadow. 

The panic in his mind drove him outside without thinking, and he discovered that other parts of the tales were false, or at least not completely true. Yes, sunlight was uncomfortable, but he did not burst into flame or fall into ash. He knew, if his body was not found on the field, it would be assumed that he was either missing in action or had crawled off the field to die elsewhere. If his absence was noticed at all, that was—in all the chaos, it might not be. Better for everyone to think he was gone. He shed helmet and gun and skirted the edge of the field, getting away as fast as shaking legs would carry him.

An old woman hailed him from a cabin a couple of miles past the fighting, and it took him a moment to realize that she could see him. His French was minimal, but she managed to make herself understood, asking him if he was hungry. He was, but the twisting ache in his belly was for a different kind of food. His eyes went black and before the sane part of his mind could take over and stop him, the old woman was dead on the floor of the cabin. The garlic she had been cooking with had had no effect on him. It was only after the blood-lust had been sated that he realized what, exactly, he had become, and he huddled in a corner, weeping and rocking the corpse.

He didn’t know how long he spent there, but finally he was able to make himself move. He found a coat hanging on a peg. It was old and threadbare in places, but it fit well enough, and it covered the bloodstains on his tunic. Mumbling, “I’m so sorry,” to the woman who could no longer hear him, he all but ran from the cabin, feeling stronger and hating himself for it.

He found a pond not far from there, and knelt to wash the rest of the blood off his face and hands in the quiet water. His reflection looked back up at him, haggard and hollowed, but very much his. He wondered if the superstitions were true, then—that mirrors could capture the soul, which was why they were often covered when a person died. If that was true, then he was indeed one of the damned and had no soul.

It was only years later that he realized the truth, and found another true part of the lore. Silver was on the backs of mirrors, and also in photographic film. Silver was anathema to vampires, and his reflection could be seen on neither. It made him wonder once again if he did still have a soul, and how much of it had been shredded away with each meal he took. He wondered if one day he would look into a pool or a window and not see himself there, either—if there truly would be nothing left of him to reflect back.

Years went by, and decades, and there came a time when he no longer cared that he could not see himself in the mirror or in photographs. It only reminded him that everyone around him aged and he did not. He was trapped in time while the world went whizzing by him, with no record to show he’d been there at all. He became numb to it, because to think about the long passage of time hurt too much.

Mirrors remained backed by silver, but silver halide in film gave way to other processes and then to digital capture. Annie offered to take a group photo of him, George and Nina one day, and he nearly said yes, biting back the word at the last moment and shaking his head. When they aged and died, as they inevitably would, he didn’t think his heart could take the sight of their young faces staring back at him from a photograph, especially with him smiling next to them.

No, it was better this way.

Then one day, there came the man who changed his mind. A golden rose, beautiful beyond belief, with thorns that could shred his heart if not handled properly. In all the long decades of his life, he’d never met anyone quite like the compact Kiwi, who exuded confidence and bluster one moment, vulnerability and heartbreak the next. The protective part of him longed to reach out, ease the fears, banish the past, build a future. Two broken halves somehow forged together as something whole and luminous, and the flaws only made it more beautiful because each understood where the cracks had come from in the other.

Now, Mitchell looked at the images on the camera and smiled. Anders looking so handsome in gray, the dimples deep and the sapphire eyes shining. And himself, looking vaguely uncomfortable in the dark suit, tousled dark curls framing the gently stubbled face, his smile as dazzling as his husband’s. Perhaps the day would come when seeing this would break his heart; when his love was old or perhaps gone from him. But to be able to capture this moment in time, preserve it forever, meant far more to him than any future pain. He knew he still had a soul, despite what any of the legends said. This beautiful man at his side had seen it, in all its light and shadow, and had held out his hand, and had been unafraid. And Mitchell had seen it reflected in his eyes.


End file.
